


Taste of Freedom

by BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk



Category: 19th Century CE France RPF, 19th Century CE RPF, Artists RPF, Historical RPF, Starry - Dahan & D'Angelo
Genre: Any Reference to Stage Theatrics is Imagination on My Part, Artists, At the time of writing this musical is still being workshopped, Characterization Derived from the Concept Album + Additional Research, Conversations, Drinking, Dying thoughts, Freedom, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Le Petit Boulevard, Love, PLEASE LISTEN TO STARRY, Post-Impressionism, Prison, Swearing, The Harvest, Wheat Fields/Finale Ultimo, the horizon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk/pseuds/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk
Summary: Vincent looks back as he’s on the way to the stars, getting lost within the prison that was his life, flashing bright as he dies.
Relationships: Vincent van Gogh & Everyone
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. The View From Halfway Up

**Author's Note:**

> _"Now, afterwards, we may well at times be a little absent-minded, a little dreamy; there are those who become a little too absent-minded, a little too dreamy; that happens to me, perhaps, but it’s my own fault. And after all, who knows, wasn’t there some cause; it was for this or that reason that I was absorbed, preoccupied, anxious, but you get over that. The dreamer sometimes falls into a pit, but they say that afterwards he comes up out of it again."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a tweaked reference to the notable episode of BoJack Horseman and the poem from the said episode _The View From Halfway Down_.

Halfway _there_.

Halfway _dead._

Halfway  **_free. _ **

_ Freedom,  _ Vincent thought to himself as he walked towards the inn in a wobbly manner.

That particular sky—dark, with the stars above calling, like bells ringing in the ear.

_ Freedom! _

Vincent winced a little, the physical sting mixing with that odd spark of color in his brain.

He could see the familiar shade of red spread quickly on his blue denim jumper, his golden shirt stained too.

He glanced at his paint-streaked hand briefly before pressing it back again against the wound in his body.

He wasn’t going to make it.

He cannot stay.

There’s nothing left for the Fire to feed on.

Vincent dodged the questions and made his excuses, making sure it was clear to everyone that he  just _couldn’t_ _stay_.

He was always so restless, yearning so much that he could never stay put. Ma and Pa weren’t fond of this behavior. People were always surprised.

_ They still are. _

Gauguin always kept moving too, but no one bullied him for it.

_ Well, maybe except Pissarro. According to the man himself, they had their disagreements. _

__

_ Speaking of disagreements... _

__

_ Paul Gauguin, that damn bastard! Talented and handsome, yet egotistical and haughty! The asshole.  _

_ Surely, he must be having a lot of fun over there at Tahiti? Perhaps he finally figured out where he wanted to go. _

M. Gauguin did not apologize. He was thick-skinned and hard-headed, with his excessive eyeliner and elaborate makeup that was bolder and flashier than everyone else’s.

__

_ “Y’know, Vince?” _

__

_ “Yeah?” _

__

_ “You don’t have to paint your strokes so quickly,” _

__

Pirate-like Gauguin was, reeking of hedonistic island adventures, of powerful conquests and dominating savagery, of childish fencing and fine-aged booze, of charismatic self-confidence.

_ “I can’t let the Fire die now, Paul,” _

That last one most of all—Vincent would commit crimes to able to have that kind of sway, to be able to get people to listen to him.

_ “You can do better for it, then.” _

Or at least, to be able to enjoy his own skin.

_ Feed the fire! _

Gauguin brought something new of his own, but Vincent knew that he could never truly emulate it. He was too much of himself that he scared the Frenchman away from him. They had so much in common!

_ Higher! Higher! _

Well, with a lot of differences too.

Gauguin liked his own craft; everything had to be perfect when it came to him. Every painting was planned on his end.

Vincent just liked to bring out the best in God’s good nature, of what was landed in his hands—to bring life to beauty.

Gauguin was easily bored by such methods, incredibly partial to the abstractions of Man's imagination, as well as how these things could be breathed into harmony.

Those were stormy times. A dark, stormy two months in Arles with M. Gauguin and his talents .

_ Curse his biting, acidic criticisms, and how I could never stand them! _

__

_ Curse his greedy, callous materialism, and how he reduces people to parts of his personal schemes! _

_ Curse his excessive sexual urges, and how he preys on everyone in such a charismatic and attractive manner! _

__

_ Must he have such blatant disregard for my feelings? Must he be so deliberate in his manipulation? “ _

_ "No guilt and chagrin?“ How fucking hilarious.  _ _ That was one of the only few truths that came out of him! _

_ Shit, Toulouse and Bernard were right; Gauguin was a walking red flag—and to think that Degas and Pissarro echoed the sentiment!  _

_ God, I’m so stupid. Why did I get so carried away? I **always** get so carried away! _

_ It was going so fucking well!  _

_ Theo thought so too. _

__

_ What would Theo think of this? _

Vincent then registered that he was on his bed in his room. Dr. Gachet was tending to him.

The beautiful Auvers has been so kind to him. M. Ravoux was very polite.

Several people walked in and out—M. Ravoux, a policeman, Dr. Gachet. Vincent didn’t have the strength for—

“...Theo?” He called out weakly, meekly to himself.

He heard nothing but the twinkling from outside, of beckoning stars, of Death waiting according to their pace.

The light of the nighttime hits different; Vincent knew that very well.

_ “Don’t you see it, Theo?” _

Vincent remembered when he first came back from the sanatorium.

_ “Right there.” _

Theo and Jo—and the little one too—were happy to have him despite the implications.

_ “The Stars?” _

As Vincent and Jo knew very well, Theo liked everything to be arranged in a neat and tidy manner.

_ “Yeah,” _

The art of arrangement was his craft, and for that reason, Theo van Gogh was a better art dealer than the older Vincent van Gogh.

_ “What exactly are you trying to point out, Vince?” _

_ “Look how colorful they are!” Vincent sat closer to his brother, “That one over there’s yellow, like a lemon! And that cluster over there looks green and blue—very much like those forget-me-nots in Ma's garden—“ _

__

_ “And that one’s pink?” _

__

_ “Yes!” Vincent put an arm on Theo’s shoulder, “How could the Masters rely on such boring dots of white over black when they could capture this instead?” _

__

_ “Well, I am in no place to speak for them,” Theo leaned into the embrace, a warmth radiating off his indigo-clad person, “But it takes a gifted eye to be able to see what you see.” _

__

_ “Aw, Theo,” Vincent smiled, “you don’t have to say that.” _

_ Chuckling, “No, I definitely do.” _

Young Adeline suddenly arrived with some water, asking for consciousness on his part. She was M. Ravoux’s daughter, and Vincent remembered doing a portrait of her.

He responded to her concerns, weaker now than a few hours ago.

She frowned but then mustered up her strength again as she left the room.


	2. Gotta Get Back, Gotta Get Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is taken from a lyric of the song _Life Itself_ by Glass Animals

The glass at Vincent’s bedside was a dark shade of green, made from the same glass that bottled absinthe (which was even greener than the bottle, bordering on glowing into an unnaturally strong emerald hue).

The water gleamed similarly, green too, although in a fashion more commonly seen in nature.

Vincent’s first absinthe made nightmares of his dreams. Just the first one, however, with the following times becoming a matter of necessity.

When Vincent was new in Montmartre, he was startled very much by the modernity and the artificiality of the place.

_ “Do you guys have to coax me into this?” _

__

_ “Everyone who comes into this part of Montmartre always leaves an absinthe drinker!” Bernard said in a chipper tone, youthful yet more knowing than him at the same time. _

__

_ “It’s like losing your virginity,” Toulouse-Lautrec joked, then rubbed his sinuses, “but, y’know...drinking?” _

__

_ “Toulouse, that made no sense—“ _

_ “I hope this initiation doesn’t ruin you, Monsieur,” Madame Segatori cut in, carrying the cursed poison with a particular air of guilt, as though responsible for bringing many men to drunken stupors many times prior. _

_“You better have a good reason to,” She paused to think of an appropriate choice of words, placing down the filled absinthe glass, “W ell, to get that fucking wasted.”_

__

_ “I didn’t go too hard when I first tried, right?” Bernard reclined back into his chair, trying to recall. _

__

_ Toulouse snickered, “Unfortunately.” _

__

It had felt like a daunting task at the time.

_ He gave the Dutchman a sympathetic look, “Don’t worry, we’ll keep a good eye on you.” _

Vincent knew this would jumpstart his alcoholism, but he also knew it was much much worse for the talented M. Lautrec, a man about 10 years his junior who drank even harder than he did.

_ He drank. _

Oh, how he drank!

__

_ “Fuck!” Vincent mustered out. “H-How the fuck do you handle so much of this in a day, Monsieur?” _

__

_ “Like all alcohol, it’s an acquired taste.” He then reclined too, placing his cane on the table, “I mean, I built up to it.” _

__

_ “'Built up to it?'” _

__

_ “Are you implying that absinthe’s the first bit of alcohol you’ve ever drunk?” Toulouse asked in concern. _

__

_ “God no,” Vincent could feel it, “I’m not that stupid.“ _

__

_ “Yes, not as stupid as Bernard,” _

__

_ “Fuck off!” _

__

_ Toulouse laughed boisterously at Bernard in response, intentionally mocking by his volume _

_ “I’m not exactly rich or idle enough to build up like you did, you prick!” _

__

_ “You still should’ve known better,” He chuckled, “For fucks sake, Bernard. The strength of absinthe is common knowledge!” _

__

_ “Is it me or did this place get brighter?” Vincent was restless on his chair, its effects speedy on him for some reason. _

__

_ “Ohoho shit,” Bernard blurted out, “looks like it’s starting to kick in, Vincent!” _

__

_ “Is this normal?!” He panicked out. _

__

_ “Y-Yes, it is!” Toulouse placed a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, “Absinthe does that. It’s nothing to worry about!” _

__

_ “Oh,” _

Toulouse-Lautrec had been correct.

_ “I think all those things you were saying about lighting are making some sense, Toulouse,” _

He got used to it.

_ “Not my intention, Monsieur, but I am honored by your acknowledgment,” _

** Shit . **

_ “Of course it takes booze for Monsieur Vincent to get your meaning,” _

__

M. Lautrec had been correct.

_ “Shut up, Bernard,” _

Correct about the ideas of dying alone, of leaving dissatisfied, of perishing in the Prison--of how it was literally happening right at that moment.

Who says he could be free forever? The Stars are many things to the painter.

_ What if it's lonelier than it looks up there? The Stars can only burn in the cold, darkness of the Horizon, after all. _

M. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was familiar with the Prison, having been in and out of it more times than Vincent could ever count.

He acted so much older than Vincent actually was, willing to do things the Dutch painter thought too bold for his tastes.

Theo found him to be incredibly overwhelming as well. Even with that, M. Lautrec’s paintings never ceased to enamor the Dutch dealer.

_ How did that little guy know so much?  _

_ How did his eyes pry open everyone he met, like brand new books waiting to be read?  _

_ How did M. Lautrec’s masterful deconstruction of the world around him work so well in his artistic success? _

Vincent need not ask why, as he would do the same in Toulouse-Lautrec’s shoes, but the process eluded him so much. With that ability, Henri had many friends, enviable popularity, and a cult of celebrity. 

(The Frenchman nonetheless tried his hardest to insist that it's not as fun as it seemed.)

_ “You're beginning to sound as idealistic as Gauguin," Toulouse snarked, "I mean, do you really want that kind of attention, Monsieur?” _

__

Their first time drinking together, where it was just the two of them, had been in one of the many dancehalls (or brothels, Vincent wasn’t sure) in Montmartre. By this time, Toulouse already had quite the reputation.

_ “Well-“ _

__

_ “Do you, now?” _

He sometimes forgets that the young man was a force to be reckoned with.

_ “Forget it,” _

__

_ Toulouse hummed in response. _

__

_ “What was that about Prisons, Vincent?” The painted makeup-shadows around his eyes glowed and glimmered hauntingly, like the absinthe that drooled from his mouth. Such embellishment only took effect in places of hedonistic frivolities, such as the place where they were at the moment. _

Vincent wanted to be understood by others, and yet he could not get used to the sensation of it.

_ “Sorry, it’s just,” He kept Vincent from responding, “b-baffling, really, to learn that you envy me!” _

__

_ “I never said that,” _

__

_ “Your meaning is never subtle.” _

__

_ “Is there something wrong about not being subtle?” _

He was always grateful that they learned from each other, as much of a rarity it was for them to be left alone together.

_ Toulouse-Lautrec reclined into his chair, taken aback. _

__

_ “N-no, not at all,” Fingers tapped against the table, “in fact, it’s terrible how we’re not allowed to be...so raw and truthful--intimate, as we are now.” _

__

_ “Exactly!” Vincent slammed a fist against the same table, letting out some manic energy, “Damn it! Do you ever feel like you can’t even do anything, l-like you can’t get anything right?!” _

__

_ “Erm," M. Lautrec tried to read through the meaning of his friend's sudden gesture, "not in that kind of way,” _

“ _But surely,_ _**surely** , Toulouse,” Vincent looked directly at his companion, “surely you understand, then?”_

__

_ Toulouse tightened the grip on his cane in discomfort, “Get to the point. You are being redundant—” _

__

_ “The Prison, Henri! Have you ever desired Freedom before? Ever wondered what it feels like?” _

__

_ Toulouse straightened himself up into a better sitting position. He tensed up a little. _

_“Do you know what Freedom entails, Vincent?” He asked back._

__

_ “Why, it entails the Love of God! Love that we are capable of giving! Love that ceases our dissatisfaction! It's human nature, c-common knowledge--" _

_ “Then," He asked in a sarcastic tone, "why haven’t you found your freedom yet?” _

__

_ “I,” Why does he look so unimpressed? “W-what do you mean, Monsieur Lautrec?” _

__

_ “Well, you clearly know the Prison that you are in, as well as what awaits outside of it, and how to get out, right?” _

__

_ “Of course,” _

__

_ “Well, what’s stopping you?” Has he been free before? _

_ “Stopping me?” _

So many things keep a person from even breaking the cage. Some have been so much dulled as to have never considered the notion.

For Vincent, escaping was a very difficult undertaking.

_ “Yeah." Toulouse blinked. "What is it, Monsieur?” _

_“...i-it’s **hard** ,”_

It was so hard.

__

_ “Hard?” He did not sound convinced. _

It still is, and the pain still radiates from the wound that Vincent almost forgot was just there on his body.

_ “Just...God, I can’t explain it. All I know is that I can’t free myself alone.” _

Vincent hated the cynicism that radiated off of M. Lautrec’s sense of honesty, which applied also to his abilities in capturing truth on the canvas.

_ Toulouse-Lautrec sighed with pity, proceeding to fiddle with his walking cane. It was notably elaborate, reminiscent of bourgeois sensibility. (Of course, it was. He literally drinks from the thing.) _

The French artist was by no means a realist, but the realism of his work hit a certain way that only a select few could see so clearly.

_ “It’s...comforting to know that.” _

__

_ “It really is, my friend.” _

If Vincent had the sky and the stars that embellished God’s divine blessings in Nature, Toulouse-Lautrec had all of Montmartre, a treasure chest of the most valuable stories to be told.

_ “...Monsieur Van Gogh?” _

__

_ “For the last time, Vincent is fine—“ _

__

_ “I know, it’s just,” He put his cane down, the bottom tip on the floor where it should be, “that coveted freedom we all desire,” _

_ “What of it?” _

_ “In thinking about it, I find that the sensation of freedom is... ** ephemeral ** . You would be very naïve to think otherwise. Before you know it, you will get pushed back into the Prison, and it will be much harder to escape.” _

_ “Y-You certainly do not believe that,” _

_ “Oh, but Monsieur! It happens, and not just to the likes of ourselves, but to anyone who lives and breathes!“ _

__

_“No. N-No!” To be pushed... **back in? **“You lie, Monsieur!”_

__

_ “Ohoho! It takes just one taste of freedom,” He snarked, “and suddenly you desire so intensely the idea of being desired, dreaming to be freed by someone who hopefully won’t actually lock you up in an even bigger prison!” _

_ “B-Bigger prison?" Vincent found the idea incredulous.  _ _ And terrifying. _

_ "Toulouse, is it not Prejudice that makes the Prison? Y-you of all people would--" _

_ “Know?!" Toulouse raised his voice as he snapped, "Mon Dieu, **tu es putain de fou** , Vincent! Of course, I’m fucking aware of that!”  _

_ He raised his cane as though he was ready to smack Vincent with it,  _ _ "We’re both prisoners, no matter how different you think our cages are!” _

_ He laughed dramatically and self-deprecatingly, “Prejudice...I eat that shit up every single day! It’s only a matter of time before my perpetually aching bones lead me to oblivion!” _

__

_ “I didn’t mean to offend you, Toulouse—“ _

_ "Did you, huh?! Did you, Madman?!" _

Theo had warned him. Push the right buttons and you get the side of Toulouse that demonstrates peoples' disdain for him.

_ “How much do you hate yourself to envy me, Monsieur?" His voice cracked a little, "D-Do you actually think the attention I get is freeing? Because it fucking isn't!" _

__

_ “No, I—“ The aggression carried over to the Dutch painter, “God damn it, Monsieur, I want to be worth something! Do you think I am undeserving of it?!  What good do you think I lack that I can’t be as good as my brother, y-your dealer? T-that I can’t even preach God’s Love the way the world demands? My hope burns, and I hope you think of me worthy of Love, o-of being understood! You know very well that we’re of the breed of men who would do anything to have Love in their lives. I don’t necessarily envy you, but I sure as hell want a little recognition! You have that!” _

_ Toulouse lowered his cane, sighing. _

__

_ “Jesus Christ, that desperation is going to kill you,” He muttered quietly, sitting back down, "I bet you can't handle recognition the moment it approaches you. The art of reaping is an overwhelming task." _

__

Why was he correct?

_ “Watch me.” _

Why was he so Goddamn good at being right?

_ Toulouse-Lautrec's eyes widened, making a face of absolute surprise. _

_ “Optimistic of you, Vincent, ” He leveled back his voice, huffing in shock of Vincent's hope and confidence, “That **'Studio in the South'** idea sounds really nice.” _

_ The Dutchman caught his friend's tone.  _

_ “...what’s wrong with it?” Vincent reclined into his chair, “Tell me plainly, Monsieur Lautrec.” _

_ “Nothing! Well, other than being unable to see myself being involved in it, really,” _

__

_ “Do you not like it?” _

__

_ “No! It’s a wonderful idea, really!” The tension finally eased itself, “But my dreams direct me someplace else.” _

__

_ “Ah,” Vincent paused. “Where would that be?” _

__

_ “Think commissions and requests. Right now, I have been most curious about posters.” _

__

_ “Posters?” _

_ “Yeah.” _

__

_ “Ah.” _

Vincent thought poster work was very commercial and therefore very unbecoming for a respectable artist. He never ever voiced this, but he wondered if M. Lautrec succeeded in his dreamed-of endeavors concerning them.

_ “What gave you the idea?” _

__

_ “Well, I’m friends with this singer—“ _

__

_ “No, about the ephemeral quality of Freedom,” Vincent looked at Toulouse. _

_ "Well, I think--" He paused, "we need to drink." _

_ Toulouse then raised a hand, gesturing in a certain way. In seconds, the glasses on their tables were filled once more. It had been four hours, the longest Vincent had seen M. Lautrec not drink, up until that moment. _

__

_ “I don’t need books to tell me that our society is riddled with the worst kinds of Prisons. For my own survival, I pick apart the world by observation alone,” He then drank some of his newly-refilled glass, “and I can say with absolute certainty that imprisonment happens all around us—all the time, really!” _

_ He egged Vincent to look where he was looking, pointing with his face and making examples of the women in the establishment. He knew them all by name, speaking of them each very fondly, as though they were his family. _

__

Vincent respected women like them, women of the streets, though deep down knew he could never light a candle to M. Lautrec’s more passionate demonstrations.

_ They faced each other again, “I, too, go through the same excruciating torture.” _

_ Vincent tried to breathe. The Fire that kindled at that moment felt electric. _

__

_ “So...you’ve tasted Freedom?” _

__

_ “You could say that.” _

Vincent prayed to the Stars for a miracle.


	3. And My Heart Burns (Like the Sunlight)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from a lyric of the song _Sunburn_ by The Living Tombstone

Prayer, too, seemed to be draining, as he was parched.

Vincent glanced at the bedside table where the glass was placed and tried his hardest to reach for it.

It was heavy.

_ “You should know when to stop, Vincent,” _

But he was so thirsty.

_ “Why should I stop painting, Madame?” _

He sipped.

_ “Not that, Monsieur,” Segatori cooed, taking Vincent’s half-empty glass from him. “You’ve seen how this emerald poison works, right?” _

_ “Yes, and it quenches my thirst,” _

That was some refreshing water—or it could just be the fact that he was dying very slowly and—

_ “Yet too much and you’ll drown in pain,” She went to put the glass away where she can still be within earshot, “I don’t want any of my patrons hurting themselves, alright?” _

Fuck, that hurt. Everything was hurting.

_ “Why are you so kind to me, Madame? I can’t sell, and I sure as hell can’t pay for most of my meals—“ _

_ “Hey, hey, hey,” She returned to him, arms free from the load, “don’t beat yourself up.” _

_ “Did Theo pay you to be nice to me?” _

_ “What did I just say?!” _

_ “I’m,” Vincent flinched from Segatori’s attempts of putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, “...need—I-I need to concentrate.” _

She could only sigh.

Vincent emptied his glass, then limply smacked it down onto the bedside table, almost breaking it.

_ “Please take care of yourself, painter,” Vincent relaxed a little when Segatori began to retreat from him, “Your Fire is important to us.” _

He breathed out as best as he could, the sting piercing deeper than before. 

_ A sudden wave of melancholy attacked the painter when Segatori quickly returned, gently kissing his cheek— _

He could vividly imagine the stiffening of his blood, no longer swirling in natural vigor.

_“Seasons will change; the Harvest will rise,” She used to whisper, the Madame’s cruel way of seducing him._

_ Agostina Segatori was just too kind. Vincent could never handle a Love like that, no matter how much he desired it. _

_ “...and everyone knows you reap what you sow.” _

“Fuck!” He cursed as the air began to cool, freezing his blood.

_ It hurts to move. _

The room was becoming darker than it already was.

_ It hurts to die. _

He was trapped on the cot. 

The windows of the bedroom were wide open _(_ _ fresh air can only do so much _ _)_ , and the bell-like stars seemed to tease Vincent with their light.

_ Freedom was so close! _

Vincent reached again for the bedside table where his pipe he could’ve used that day laid.

_ Dying was hard work, after all. _

He messily lit the powder with the half-melted candle that happened to also be on the bedside table, quickly bringing the device to his mouth at the sight of smoke.

It still hurt, though an amount of pain was replaced with the overwhelming sensation of tobacco.

_ “Are you saying that my method isn’t valid?” _

_ “That’s not what I said, Bernard—“ _

Oh, what could’ve been!

_ “Then why are you so quick to support Signac? His and Seurat’s technique!” _

_ “Bernard,” _

What could’ve been!

_ “It’s just a bunch of fucking dots! There’s no form, no harmony—just a bunch of...divided dots! Of all the new ways to capture light and color—“ _

_ “But it works, doesn’t it?” _

Émile Bernard was one of Vincent’s closest friends and the youngest artist of renown that Vincent knew.

_ Bernard stared at Vincent in disbelief. _

He had a bookishness and sense of self-actualization that Vincent knew they shared, despite their different tastes.

_ “Monsieur, you have to be joking,” _

_ “I-I’m not,” Vincent took another whiff from his pipe, “I mean, the method is grounded in Science, Bernard,” _

_ “Which is something that has no place in Art! All Science can do to an artwork is to break it, which,” Bernard laughed, “is literally what’s going on in those shitty pointillist paintings.” _

_ “They’re not shitty. It’s just... a deconstruction!” _

_ Bernard hesitated to respond, boyishly playing with his suspenders. _

_ “I can’t in good conscience exhibit with artists who invoke ‘deconstruction’ in their work, Vincent.” _

_ “You don’t mean that,” _

_ The young man shrugged, unable to retort in face of Vincent’s obvious disappointment. _

_ “Look,” Vincent put a hand to Bernard’s shoulder, “We’re putting up this exhibition at the Café so that we, the Petit Boulevard, can be recognized as a new generation of artists! Successors to the revolutionary impressionists of the Grand Boulevard! Just...good, hardworking people honing their craft in solidarity with one another!” _

_ “I know that’s what you want,” _

_ Vincent stopped using his pipe. _

The powder ran out, leaving the poor painter to weakly place the pipe back onto the bedside table.

The smell of tobacco lingered, the moonlight capturing the smoke that irritatingly perished faster than he did.

_ “Is that not what you want, Bernard? You said it was your way to get recognized,” _

_ “Not with them,” _

_ “Why are you so hostile to the pointillists anyway? Camille Pissarro—of the Grand Boulevard—was moved by these pointillists you so unnecessarily shit on!” _

_ Bernard briefly gave an expression of shock before forming his response. _

_ “Well, Paul Gauguin likes what I’m doing,” _

_ Vincent lit up at the thought. _

_ “Gauguin?” _

“ _Yeah! We spent some time painting together before you arrived. The guy was trying to find himself,”_

_ “That’s what Theo said about him too.” _

Leave it to Émile Bernard, someone who was as dreamy as Vincent van Gogh and as ambitious as Paul Gauguin, to develop a whole new style of painting.

_ “Still,” Vincent tried to return to the topic, “please. Just keep in mind that your synthetism is neither above nor below the pointillists. I’m sure that would be made clear when you exhibit with us together!” _

_ Bernard tried to put Vincent’s hand away from him, “It’s your idea, man.” _

_ “C’mon,” _

Oh, what could’ve been...

_ “I...will stand with I believe in, Vincent.” _

_ Vincent hesitated briefly before replying, “O-Of course.” _

He didn’t sell that year, 1887.

1890’s Exhibition, despite the one sold painting, still felt as empty.


	4. To Have the Night as No One Has It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a tweaked quotation from the book The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The moon was finally visible from the window. Like the stars, it had its powers within its light.

From beauty, there lies an intense fascination. Do they free or do they trap the beholder?

_ “...such beautiful Nocturnes,” Jo was readying the music sheets on the piano, “and it’s just so much fun to play!” _

Vincent was a little relieved, having the knowledge that the fruits of his labor would be savored well by Theo, Jo, and—

_ “Does this baby ever get a chance to hear you play?” Vincent had his namesake in his arms, holding him for Jo so she could play for them, “It would be a shame if he grew up without hearing you play those beautiful Nocturnes you speak of.” _

_ “Well, when Theo and I are free, we try to entertain ourselves to pass the time,” She flipped through the pages of the book, “Though, it’s only happened about twice since we got married. You know how busy he’s gotten.” _

Jo was too kind to him. Way too kind. Theo was a lucky guy.

_ “Of course,” Vincent tried to push back his shame, diverting his attention instead to the baby. He was sleeping peacefully. _

A part of Vincent felt that he had been taking a huge part of Jo’s life away from her, despite her repeated insistence that she did not feel that way at all.

_ The room suddenly got filled by the sound of the piano. Loose and dangling notes opened the piece, or it could be Jo figuring out the key. Whatever it was, Vincent knew music wasn’t his forte. _

They both needed Theo.

_ A sudden crash of chords that escalated into fluttering keys made him jump a little, the baby in his arms still asleep. _

Many artists needed Theo. Little Baby Vincent needed Theo. Everyone needed Theo. 

_ The sight of that Starry Night flashed brightly in his mind. _

“Have I been so terrible to you, brother?” The question struck him so hard that it had to be voiced into the air, where its echoes died within the blowing wind outside.

_Jo was right. That was a beautiful Nocturne. Does music make her dream? No, she would insist that there was so much more to that. She always yearned, almost as much as... **I would do.**_

_ How terrifying, and to think of the torture of one who dreams and yearns as much as I do! As we do! And yet, does she know that I would agree? That there’s so much more than beautiful Nocturnes and Starry Nights?  _

The silence that follows the question is unbearable, like being pushed back in that Prison he’s spent trying to get out of all of his life.

_ The melody brought Vincent to sway in the rhythm of the piece, the child in his arms being rocked as he moved. _

He cannot stay. The Harvest is delicate as it takes its time. It’s never late, so Vincent could only wait anxiously.

_ Jo giggled as she glanced briefly at their movement, bringing Vincent to carry himself and his namesake to her direction. _

_ “I can’t believe none of you bothered to wait for me!” _

_ The three were so caught in the euphoria they didn’t notice Theo had entered the room. _

_ Jo paused her playing, “You certainly took a while,” _

_ “Do you want me to disrespect the beautiful gift our dear brother has given us by putting it in a poor spot in our House?” Theo closed the door behind him. _

_ “I think it’s good enough to make pretty any corner of our House, Theo.” _

_ Theo turned to Vincent and approached him, eyeing the sleeping baby. _

_ “Look at our Uncle of the Year, Jo! Little Vincent’s so still in his hardworking hands!” _

_ “‘Uncle of the Year’ seems a bit much, don’t you think?” Vincent handed the baby to Theo. _

_ “Dries is your only competition. Between you and him, we know who’s here right now, Vince.” _

_ Jo eyed her husband in near-offense. As far as Vincent knew, Dries Bonger had his marital problems that get brought up in the Van Gogh-Bonger apartment—no, Van Gogh-Bonger House—every now and then.  _

_ “Well, I’m grateful for the title.” Vincent smiled, pleased at the sight of his brother and his nephew, wondering if a series of portraits could be possible in the future. _

“Right...” Vincent scoffed to himself, weakening by the second.

His hand grazed the wound again; Dr. Gachet’s efforts were visible to his tired eyes.

Vincent could not help it. He began to weep.

His hand rested itself back to his side, his blood feeling as solid as ice cubes trying to melt in the winter.

His tears blurred the view of the night from the window. How different would impressionist paintings be if the artists who painted them wept as they worked? Tears seemed to play with light too.

The ringing of the stars was piercing with its sound.

In fact, everything was ringing, like the banging of the gun towards him.

It was banging that seemed to echo with that faraway boomerang effect, returning with a bass of depth, like the bullet that penetrated his—

** “Vincent?!” **

The door was slammed quickly and forcefully, letting inside the room what looked like impressions of an ever-changing Horizon that seemed to become clearer in view.

“...Theo?”

Theo’s frantic footsteps sounded like explosions—not unlike the banging from a few seconds earlier.

_ God, forgive me for being such a terrible brother. _

“ Oh, **oh!** ” 

Theo was unable to articulate anything, his vision so obviously clouded with tears, just like his brother’s.

He knelt down at the side of Vincent’s bed, trying so hard to regain composure.

“Why did you come here?” Vincent asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Theo tried to gently grasp his brother’s hand, “Y-You’re hurt!”

Theo breathed.

“A-And you’re cold...” Theo observed, sniffling.

“I’m not surprised.”

“No. T-This will pass. This will all be over soon,” Theo seemed to repeat, more for himself than for Vincent, muttering like how a Catholic prays the rosary.

Neither of them could stop their tears.

“...Thank you for being here,”

Theo looked up to his brother, his eyes having been fixated on their clasped hands for the past few minutes.

“You know how much I need you, Vince,”

Vincent smiled.

Theo smiled back.

“Join me on the bed, Theo,”

“Will you be comfortable?”

“That doesn’t matter.“

“Yes, it does,”

“Come on, Theo. I’m not getting any better anyway.”

“You’re all I have, Vince. P-Please don’t say that,”

“Since when did people go afraid of dying? I think...yeah. I think that I would like to die like this.”

Theo then sighed, with shaky breaths, sitting down on the available space at the side, making sure he didn’t obscure Vincent’s view of the window.

“There’s nothing sad about death, Theo,” Vincent went on, directing what remained of his fading strength, “I feel ready for it.”

“R-Really?”

“Well, I have you. We have the Horizon,” a sniffle, “W-What more could I ask for?”

Theo sobbed, struggling to respond.

“D-Don’t cry,”

The younger brother’s hands gripped tightly on the bedsheets, releasing as he sighed.

“T-This...This wasn’t how I thought this would go. H-How we’d make this Starry Night our own!”

“It’s as beautiful as we dreamed it to be, right?” There was doubt in Vincent’s tone, **“R-Right, Theo?”**

Theo glanced back to his brother, his eyes red and puffy. He faced back towards the window.

“The stars are as gold as lemons, with the b-blue and green of Ma’s f-forget-me-not’s,” Theo sniffled, breaking down into sobs.

“They’re pink—the color of Freedom, o-of God, of Love, of L-Life, of-o-of- **OH!** I’m going to lose all this, Vincent!”

Theo clasped his brother’s hand again, “What power does the Night have when you’re no longer here to help me see it? What answers can it give without you making it so...s-so  **sacred**?”

He sobbed some more, louder this time.

The ringing of the stars increased in volume too.

“...is that what the Stars do to you, Theo? W-What made you think—t-think—“ Vincent was struck by that flickering, piercing sensation, his fingers curling into his brother’s, “t-that I’d be so...sacred, a-as our Horizon?”

“You’re better as this than me,” Theo let go.

“At what?”

“You...you see beauty everywhere, I-I mean, I do too, but you put so much work into making sure people see what you see! You persevere! I-I was just lucky!”

“Still... I wouldn’t have been able to do that without your help,” Vincent winced a little, “Theo. Y’know, despite the arguments we had.”

Theo chuckled lightly.

“Despite the trouble I gave you,”

“Vince, please.”

“Don’t deny it.”

Theo’s breath became shakier.

“T-This makes me sad, brother,” Theo sobbed, then reaching for Vincent, “for the love of God, d-don’t leave me like that!”

Theo cried, buried into the heavy arms of his dying brother. 

“I cannot stay,”

“I know, I know,”

“I’m sorry,”

“Oh!” Theo raised his head to look at Vincent, “D-Don’t you dare leave me like that! I love you! I love you! I love you! Know that I love you, V-Vincent! Carry my love with you, w-when you get up there! B-Bring that part of me with you!”

Vincent tried to smile.

“I-I’m so sorry, Theo,” They were both in heavy tears, “For l-leaving you with my sadness.”

It was suddenly so hard to talk.

“I pray and hope i-it doesn’t ruin you and J-Jo, a-and little Vincent,”

A sob escaped the younger brother, his face buried into the older’s neck. He was shaking in his gesture, as though the painter would fade into stardust.

“O-or else...or else,”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Or else the sadness...t-the sadness will last forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> _"And it’s often impossible for men to do anything, prisoners in I don’t know what kind of horrible, horrible, very horrible cage. There is also, I know, release, belated release. A reputation ruined rightly or wrongly, poverty, inevitability of circumstances, misfortune; that creates prisoners._
> 
> _You may not always be able to say what it is that confines, that immures, that seems to bury, and yet you feel I know not what bars, I know not what gates — walls. Is all that imaginary, a fantasy? I don’t think so; and then you ask yourself, Dear God, is this for long, is this for ever, is this for eternity?_
> 
> _You know, what makes the prison disappear is every deep, serious attachment. To be friends, to be brothers, to love; that opens the prison through sovereign power, through a most powerful spell. But he who doesn’t have that remains in death. But where sympathy springs up again, life springs up again._
> 
> _And the prison is sometimes called Prejudice, misunderstanding, fatal ignorance of this or that, mistrust, false shame."_
> 
> [\- Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, June 1880](http://vangoghletters.org/vg/letters/let155/letter.html)


End file.
